


Songbird Sweet

by blue_wonderer, wonderingtheblue (blue_wonderer)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barry did not grow up with the Wests, Barry has tattoos and piercings, Len and Barry get together before Barry becomes the Flash, Len is thirsty, Len thinks Barry is all that and a bag of chips, M/M, Neighbors, Pre-Canon, Singer!Barry, Sort of Kind of, Thief!Len
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 22:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/wonderingtheblue
Summary: Len's squatting in a vacant apartment while planning his next heist but it's his songbird neighbor with his pretty freckles and sweet smile that steals his attention.





	Songbird Sweet

The apartment isn’t, _technically_ , his. However, it is fully furnished, the owner is non-smoking, and—more importantly—the apartment building is located conveniently near both a comic book store and maybe one of the best doughnut places in all of Central City. Even more conveniently, the apartment’s owner isn’t due back into town for another week. Len’s never seen the point of hiding out in warehouses or squatting in other abandoned, dilapidated shelters when he’s got central heating and air, a soft bed, and access to a washer readily available just about anywhere in the city.

Apparently, Len’s brand-new apartment also comes with an interesting array of musical entertainment, free of charge. 

The first time it happens, it’s two in the afternoon and Len is trying to sleep. He’s sleeping at two in the afternoon because it’s not like his “profession” entails a regular sleep schedule or even regular hours. So, he’s trying to sleep when he clearly hears the lyrics to “Wrecking Ball” filter in through the walls.

For thirty minutes straight. 

He’s just getting ready to march over, knock out the offender and duct tape their mouth shut, consequences be damned, when the voice fades out and Len is able to fall asleep. He’s not sure if the singing continues while he’s asleep, but he wakes up to the notes of “Wrecking Ball” a few hours later. He’s well-rested, and he’s heading out tonight for some reconnaissance, and really the voice is quite nice when he’s not feeling murderous, so Len decides to leave his dopey little songbird duct-tape free. For now.

(Unfortunately, “Wrecking Ball” ends up irreparably stuck in his head for the rest of the night. His only solace is that he managed to get it stuck in Mick and Lisa’s heads as well.)

The second day Len isn’t trying to sleep, he’s hopped up on too much caffeine for that. Instead, he’s planning his imminent villainy via text message with his villainous team of villains. So, when “Africa” bursts into life on the other side of his walls and kind of falls into “Take on Me” with no discernible transition, it actually makes Len smile. 

His neighbor must be singing while he’s doing his home chores—Len sometimes hears the vacuum, or a particularly loud and ominous thud—because the voice fades in and out as he moves around. And he doesn’t. Stop. Singing. 

Len mostly ignores it until a little over an hour later, when he hears the voice again. It’s close to Len’s wall and he's—Len thinks it’s a male voice—not singing, but talking. Len catches only a few words before the man moves away from the wall. 

_“Joe—Joe I know you don’t like it, but—”_

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen minutes. Len’s gone on to make lunch and is thinking about guard rotations and meeting his fence in Miami when his neighbor starts singing again. 

_“Yes, the strong gets more_  
While the weak ones fade  
Empty pockets don’t ever make the grade  
Mama may have, Papa may have  
But God bless the child that’s got his own”

The nostalgia comes out of nowhere, a swell that starts in Len’s chest and crests somewhere behind his eyes. He pictures the barstools at his granddad’s kitchen counter, the gold-framed pictures on the paneled walls, the yellow patterned wallpaper that was starting to peel up top, the green plates in Len’s small hands as he helped his granddad put away the dinner dishes. 

Granddad’s voice, crooning quietly along with his records, slyly cajoling Len to hum along with a secretive smirk and a gentle nudge to his shoulder. 

Len doesn’t recall making a conscious decision to orchestrate a meeting between himself and his songbird neighbor, but the need to put a face with the voice is sudden and overwhelming. Besides, he’s been craving chocolate chip cookies, and he doesn’t have all of the ingredients. 

New goal firmly in mind, Len walks next door and knocks. The singing abruptly cuts off in a crash, some faint cursing, a heavy footfall, and an indecipherable shout. And then the apartment door swings open to reveal a young man. He is about as breathtaking as his voice, Len thinks distantly. Tall and lithe with pretty pale skin and _freckles_. He is barefoot, wearing torn jeans and a thin white Star Wars t-shirt that hangs loosely about his neck, revealing a touch of a sharp collarbone. He must be warm from his recent housework because he has a few damp curls against his forehead and neck. He looks every bit the wholesome, geeky boy next door. 

Except for the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. And the eyebrow ring. And Len didn’t even know an ear could be pierced that many times. He’s a little pleased to note that the other man is staring at Len openly with a rising pink flush to his face.

“Hi, sorry to bother you—I’m Len,” he introduces himself in his “totally not a criminal” voice. “Uh, I’m a friend of Tony’s?” He gestures vaguely towards the apartment he’s squatting in. “I’m just watching his place while he’s out of town.” 

The other man blinks out of his stupor and turns redder if that is even possible. It’s quite an interesting color on him, Len thinks as he watches the young man throw a hand up to cover his mouth in seeming mortification. “Oh no, I—I’m sorry. About the singing, I mean! Tony normally gets _so_ mad and he’s gone so I didn’t think I’d bother anyone. I’m so sorry.” 

Len leans against the doorframe and congratulates himself on his impulsive decision to meet his songbird neighbor. This whole event has turned out to be entertaining at the very least and to say that the view is also quite pleasing would be an understatement. “No need to apologize, I thought it was one of the perks of living here.” 

In what Len feels is a very futile effort, the man decides to cover his entire face with his hands to hide the blush. Cute. 

“Listen, I didn’t come here to make you feel uncomfortable. I just came to see if you had any brown sugar, uhm…?”

“Oh!” The man thrusts his hand out for a handshake. “Allen! Barry! Barry Allen! I—uh… I think I have brown sugar? How much do you need?” He turns as soon as Len lets go of his hand and hurries away, tripping over the vacuum that’s resting behind him, and then getting his foot caught in the cord. Barry flails in a panic, almost falling on his face. 

Taking pity, Len strides forward and steadies Barry before he can topple. “Easy there, songbird.” He honestly doesn’t think anything of it when he kneels down in front of Barry, gently grasping the back of Barry’s calf to lift his leg. He unwraps the cord from around Barry’s foot, fingers brushing against the tender skin over his anklebone. 

Still in his “totally not a criminal, honest” persona, Len grins up at Barry, who’s looking down at him with his mouth dropped open. 

“Right,” Barry squeaks. “Brown s-sugar. Is what you wanted. I. OK.” He stumbles backward, nearly trips again, this time on thin air, before he starts scrambling in the direction of the kitchen. 

Adorable and hopeless. 

Len takes another few modest steps forward but doesn’t push Barry’s comfort level by following him into the kitchen. 

“Uhm, what are you making? If I may ask?” Barry calls from his kitchen, where Len can hear him opening several cabinets. 

“Cookies,” Len says. “Tony doesn’t keep the right ingredients around, though.” 

“How much do you need?” 

“A cup should be fine.” 

“To be fair,” Barry says. “I’m terrible at baking, so I normally don’t either. But I use this for peanut butter and brown sugar French toast. And pancakes. I’m really only good at breakfast food.”

He returns with about two cups of brown sugar in a plastic container and holds it out to Len. “Here, it was, uh—nice to meet you. I am sorry about the singing. I won’t do it as much.” 

“It’s fine. It’s actually kind of beautiful, you know?” 

Barry looks away and Len’s drawn to the long curve of Barry’s neck, the flutter of dark eyelashes, the way his shirt shifts when he lifts his arm to run his hand nervously through his hair. 

“I—thanks.” 

“You can keep singing, as long as I get to make a request now and again?”

Barry smiles and Len finds himself gripping the sugar container harder. 

“I can do that. What do you have in mind?” 

“Jazz, like what you were singing. It… reminds me of someone.” 

Barry’s eyes turn soft in a way that makes Len want to look away. “It reminds me of someone, too. Joe, he… tried to help me out when I was younger. He still tries to, I think. Anything else?” 

Len shakes his head as he steps backward through the door. “Not right now. I’m sure I’ll call it in, though.” 

Whether or not Len ever sees Barry again, he thinks Barry’s smile will be forever seared into his memory, along with his voice. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” 

Barry sings jazz throughout the rest of the day. 

The third day, Barry seems to be in a more melancholic mood. 

_“Oh it gets so lonely_  
When you’re walking  
And the streets are full of strangers” 

The voice filters in through the thin apartment walls, coaxing Len from his meditative staring of the blueprints and notes he’s scribbled out. 

Len sits for a moment, lets the song settle around him. He pushes his notes aside and gets up to pour himself a glass of wine. He forgoes the table and his blueprints in favor of sitting on the couch so he can better hear the string of notes filtering through the wall. By the time he brings the glass to his lips, Barry’s transitioned gently to another song. 

_“You’re staring down the stars_  
Jealous of the moon  
You wish you could fly” 

Len sips the wine, tilts his head back, and listens. He listens until Barry’s song ebbs like a tide going out before disappearing altogether. Len sets his glass aside and gets back to work. He plans and coordinates throughout the night—he’s still texting back and forth with Lisa when he hears Barry come back in around five in the morning. 

The fourth day Len is in his borrowed apartment is busy for him, and it’s also the last day he planned to say. With some regret, Len thinks that he probably won’t hear Barry’s voice again. He’ll likely leave before Barry wakes up for the day, and the job is supposed to go down tonight. After that, Len will have to leave Central for at least a few months while things cool down. 

Before he leaves the apartment for the last time, however, he returns Barry’s plastic dish to him. He leaves it outside his door with four chocolate chip cookies stacked inside as a “thank you”.

****

That night, an hour and a couple of miles away from the bank he just robbed, a bag full of diamonds stuffed in the inner pockets of his leather jacket, Len wonders why he ever even bothers to make a plan anymore.

There was an extra guard that Len couldn’t have accounted for, which was fine, except there was an extreme degree of incompetence on his team he hadn’t accounted for, which was also fine right up until Scudder and Rosa turned on Len, Mick, and Lisa and tried to take the diamonds for themselves. The cops were on the scene by then and soon both the police and Scudder were chasing them down. Len had broken off from Mick and Lisa, trusting those two to get each other out while he distracted their pursuers. It wasn’t a heroic act or anything, it’s just that he’d never forgive himself if something happened to Lisa. And Mick would probably break his nose (again) if Len got him sent to prison (again). 

And now Len has a stitch in his side and no options as he runs through the livewire nightlife of Central City, dodging in and out of crowds and buildings as he tries to lose both Scudder’s goons and the police. 

He slides into one mostly deserted alley to catch his breath, leaning against the brick, wincing at the ache in his lungs and ribs. He pats his hand over the diamonds to make sure they’re still in his jacket before he takes stock of where he is. Which is when he spots Scudder bobbing through the crowd on the street, heading in his direction. Len groans in frustration, wishing for a gun or maybe a bazooka as he casts about for an escape. Len doesn’t think he’s been seen yet, but he ducks further into the alley anyway. He finds a door near some dumpsters, realizes that its unlocked, and crashes blindly through it. 

He ends up in a kitchen, the smell of grease and the grill almost overwhelming compared to the cool air outside. The room is smoky from the heating elements, and the clang of dishes and pans is almost unbearably loud. And, above that, he can hear the thrum of music and the roar of a crowd. 

Len’s in Central City’s House of Rock, a local version of the Hard Rock Café chain, and one of Central’s most popular night spots. 

Len gets his bearings and makes his way through the kitchen, avoiding suspicion by walking confidently like he belongs there. Deciding to lose himself in the crowd and wait for Scudder and the police to pass him by outside, Len pushes through the kitchen doors and onto the main floor. People crush him on all sides as they stand to watch the band on the stage, the music thrumming so loud it rattles his chest. The lighting is that weird mix of dim and bright that makes the room seem both too big and too small all at once. 

Perfect for hiding. 

Len spots the bar, decides a drink will help him blend in more and starts making his way over, changing his gait from quick and purposeful to slow and casual. He’s been too busy thinking up escape routes, predicting Scudder’s movements, wondering if he’s lost the police or if they’ve set up a perimeter, to really notice the band playing. 

Until. 

_“What a wicked game you played to make me feel this way  
What a wicked thing to do to let me dream of you”_

Len pauses mid-step, turning around to face the stage because he _knows_ that voice. 

And there, front and center, is Barry Allen. He looks completely different from the clumsy, sunshine-flavored geek he’d met a couple of days ago. Barry is now dressed in tight, dark clothes that are artfully frayed and torn. The shirt stops just above his waist and his pants sling just below it, giving a tantalizing preview of light ab muscles, curling tattoos, and the glimmer of a navel piercing. The music is slow and sensual, and the crowd around him seems to sway with it. Barry is moving suggestively against his guitar player as he sings, sweeping his gaze to his audience as if letting them in on the illicit, electrifying moment. 

_“What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way  
What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you”_

Spellbound, it’s like Len’s being pulled by a gravitational force. He takes a few dream-like steps forward, followed by a few more. He’s still nowhere close to the stage, and yet as Barry breaks away from his slow grind against his guitarist he turns, takes a few prowling steps toward the edge of the stage, it seems like his eyes meet with Len’s. 

It feels like the tension—the singing, the spontaneous meeting in Barry’s apartment—has been building up to this gut-punch of a moment. Looking up at Barry, surrounded by his voice, this time unfiltered by apartment walls, and knowing that Barry is both the blushing songbird and this seductive creature makes Len _want_ in a way he hasn’t in a while. He feels arousal fall warm and lush through him and he thinks that this is… probably _not_ a good time. Len definitely has other priorities right now. Like his life and freedom. However, he’s never been one to just pass by a good view. Seize the day and all that. 

But then there’s a shout, barely heard over the music. And then more and more. A loud, ear-splitting crack—a gunshot. 

The crowd dissolves into screaming chaos. 

Len’s suddenly and violently jostled and pushed by an unforgiving tide of humanity. He stumbles, turning to catch a glimpse of Scudder facing off against the police near the House of Rock’s entrance. Len ducks and turns into the moving mass, lets them carry him away until he’s able to break off and head towards backstage. It’s dark, and there is a pack of other people running with him, knocking into one another and bouncing off of walls and doorways like frantic pinballs. 

There haven’t been any more gunshots. More than likely, the police have arrested Scudder and are already out of the building. But the herd mentality has already overtaken all of House of Rock’s patrons, nearly gets a grip on Len, and people are rushing in useless and dangerous panic in all directions. 

Someone ahead of him breaks through the back door, and they end up spilling into the back alley, just several feet from the side alley Len was in a few minutes before. There are a few cars and vans parked in the alley, bottlenecking the crowd even more perilously together. Even here Len can see the faint red and blue glow of police lights ricocheting off the brick walls, casting ominous shadows on the layers of graffiti, and he knows he needs to be gone in the next few minutes. They might be preoccupied with Scudder for now, but the police will be searching for the diamonds any second, stopping as many patrons as they can to question them. 

He takes a sharp right, eyes still on the shimmering blue and red lights when he runs straight into someone. Hard. They lose balance and he ends up sprawled rather gracelessly on top of the other person. 

But there’s a stampede of feet still coming. Without thinking much of it, Len rolls both himself and his unwitting victim out of the line of a certain bruising death and to the right until they’re between two parked cars, shoulders up against the back wall of House of Rock. This time, the person is on top of him. 

It’s kind of dark, and the person’s hair and neck are sort of right there, so Len first becomes aware of scent—shampoo, cologne, and sweat. And then the heat of the person’s body seeps into his, a flare of warmth in the cool night. And, yeah, Len’s hands kind of ended up mostly on the person’s lower back and ass, so, definitely hard to ignore that. 

And then the person shifts on top of him and there’s pale skin and long eyelashes and also— 

“Oh my God, are you—I’m so sorry, I—Len?” 

He knows that voice. 

Len smirks up at Barry in what he hopes is his “totally dashing and still definitely not a criminal” smirk. Barry blinks and re-positions to get a better look. Except. The movement sort of aligns their hips just _so_.

Barry’s eyes are wide and, even in the poorly-lit night, Len can make out the red flush creeping in his cheeks. 

“I—uh,” Barry stutters. “I didn’t mean to…” 

In his haste to rectify the situation, Barry shifts again, turning redder by the second. 

And what is Len supposed to do with that? Think and act coherently with an armful of a pretty songbird? 

“We should, uh,” he clears his throat. “I have to go.” Seeming of their own volition, Len’s hands tighten on Barry’s hips in rebellious opposition to his words.

Barry’s eyebrows shoot upward and his mouth twists into a wide, delighted grin. He pats Len’s jacket, right where the diamonds are hidden. “Does your urgency have something to do with this?” 

A beautiful voice, an amazing body, and a quick wit? Sign Len the fuck up, there is such a thing as love at first sight after all. He almost buries his fingers in Barry’s hair and kisses him right then. 

“It might,” Len drawls. “You gonna turn me in?” 

Barry’s expression is positively devilish and Len wonders if this is what whiplash feels like. Because there Barry goes again, clumsy and shy one second, cocky and confident the next. A puzzle to figure out, a heist he needs to plan and turn over and analyze. Looking into those laughing eyes, Len feels a thrill in him he usually only experiences a few seconds before a big job. 

“You know, I thought I saw you in the crowd, just a few seconds before everything went crazy. Thought I was imagining it.” Barry says as climbs off of him, a little slower than strictly necessary, and reaches down to help Len up. “I think I rather run, always been good at that. Wanna come with me?” 

Len grins and takes Barry’s hand.

****

Later, but not _too_ much later because it turns out Barry is just as impulsive as Len is, they’re lounging together in a hotel bed two cities over from Central. Len’s sitting with his back against the headboard and Barry is lying with his back against Len’s chest, hips bracketed by Len’s legs. Barry’s humming softly while Len traces his fingers over Barry’s tattoos, starting with the one on his chest, idly stroking down his belly and up to his naked thigh.

“I think I’ll call in my favor now,” Len announces, fingers sliding along Barry’s inner thigh in a way that elicits a delicious full-body shudder. 

“Favor?” Barry scoffs. He shifts so he’s looking up at Len, exposing the long line of his neck and bearing the light bruising left behind by Len’s mouth for Len to see. “I think if anyone owes anyone a favor, you probably owe me.” 

Len can’t help but let the corner of his mouth quirk up in a crooked smile. He probably does owe Barry for getting him out of Central, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he should. “Fair enough. What do you want?” 

Barry hums and shrugs. “I’ll call it in later.” 

“I was talking about a song request, though. You said I could put in a request whenever I liked.” 

“So I did,” Barry says, carefully sitting up and turning around. Len straightens his legs and cups his hands over Barry’s hips when Barry straddles him. “Alright, then,” Barry says, leaning over and kissing Len softly, gently. “Anything you want.” 

**end.**


End file.
